Wasted Minutes
by Honour Society
Summary: Every minute Meredith is without her mother, is just another wasted minute. AU. Sequel to "Every Day." Works as a stand-alone, though the first one explains a lot. Mild cursing, nothing all that bad.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own Gossip Girl or any brands, people, etc. mentioned in this fic, only the plot and original characters (and maybe not even the plot, someone's probably beaten me to it.)

**Author's Note: **I have some subtle refrences in here. Twilight, Wicked. Bravo if you catch them. Every Day doesn't need to be read first, but it does help.

****

Wasted Minutes

_-The much-anticipated follow-up to "Every Day," a_ Gossip Girl_ fanfiction by Honour Society-_

1: 16 AM

Awake. I pull myself out of bed, stretch a bit, and yawn obnoxiously loud. My roommate, Cara or Mara or something ending with "ara" rolls over in her sleep. Did she hear me? I try my very hardest not to step on one of the homemade beaded bracelets Mara/Cara favours and makes herself that always seem to scatter the floor. Grace was never my thing, so of course I half-trip (just "half," because I don't pull a face-plant or anything) on a long-forgotten stuffed teddy bear with a frayed red velvet bow around his scrawny neck.

1:18 AM

Mara/Cara grumbles something undecipherable and I still can't tell if she's awake or asleep. Maybe somewhere in between? My eyelids droop, shading my eyes from the harsh glow of the lava lamp she insists on keeping in the room at all times.

"God, Meredith," she had said a couple weeks ago when I subtly commented that I was having trouble sleeping because of the light it emitted. "Get a life."

If only, as strange as this sounds, I could get a life. As it stands right now, I don't really have one, unless you count being shuttled from foster home to foster home.

1:22 AM

I manage to make it out of our room alive, without seriously injuring or embarrassing myself, and, more importantly, waking Cara/Mara/Something-ara. She has good intentions, sure. She's one of "us," (and by that I mean a foster kid, even though she fully knows her parents. As she told me bluntly the first time we met, "Dad hit me, Mom drank too much and Auntie Carol is a social worker. She sent me here.") who gets through things with a thousand-watt, beaming smile.

In an alternate universe, we may have been friends. But not in this one.

Mara/Cara has been with my "family" for four months. Longest I've ever been in one place is three months, one week and four days. I know; I counted. Mr. and Mrs. Elliot, our "parents," seem to genuinely like her, maybe even love her, though that's pretty rare for us to ever encounter. "Foster home" practically spells out temporary for me. Bearable. Just getting from Point A to Point B.

1:29 AM

Pushing a stray lock of my shoulder-length, bobbed chestnut brown hair out of my eye, I can see Matthew waiting for me. Instantly, my melancholy expression is replaced with a mischievous, curious-cat grin.

He can't see me.

Pacing in a circle, Matthew Elliot, the Elliots' only biological son, whose only a few months older than my fourteen years, is waiting for me. I quicken my slow-walk speed to catch up with him. I tap his Abercrombie & Fitch cream-coloured corduroy jacket-clad shoulder and watch his face light up as he spots me.

1:30 AM 

"Mer," he starts, clearing his throat with an "ahem." "What's up?"

He's nervous. I can tell. He's playing with the seashell necklace he got when the Elliots took Matt and their current fosters (not me) down to Waikiki a couple years ago. I feel my grin fade to duplicate his guilt-stricken grimace.

"The stars," I reply and sit down, cross-legged, on the dewy grass below. Gazing up at the stars, I feel much smaller than my petite 5'4 frame. I feel like an ant, a parasite, a nothing.

__

Nothing. You're nothing. Worthless. Pathetic excuse of a child.

1:36 AM 

I've heard tales of elaborate baby-switchings or terrible fathers-of-the-bride who snatch away the "wretched" child and leave her in a church pew, a Bible under the baby's head.

I've seen movies a plenty where the feisty orphan, whose alternately tormented by bullies or loved by all, (_Annie, _anyone?) and somehow, someway they "escape" from the dreaded grey towers of the orphanage to the busy city streets and (after several near misses) jump into the ready embrace of their rosy-cheeked parental units.

I've read _Anne of Green Gables _(a lot of orphans named Anne, huh?) and _Harry Potter_, where, above all odds the orphaned child comes up trumps after a series of difficult life hurdles.

As if. That only happens in the fairy tales.

My biological mom didn't want me, that's the end of the story. At least, I pretend it is. Secretly, deep down in the chasms of my heart I can't even name, I wonder if maybe there is some big dramatic plot that led to my abandonment.

Another, bigger part of me, though, swears she's dead.

_And even if, by some crapshoot, she's alive,_ That Inner Voice continues_, You really think she'd want you?_

No. She wouldn't.

1:37 AM

"Gah, I hate when you say that."

I smirk at Matt, as his eyes dart up to the coal black sky above us. Above everyone. I know what I want to think (_Above my mom._) but That Inner Voice says no.

"Say what?"

"'The sky.'"

"You hate when I talk about the sky? Why? What's wrong with the sky?" My innocent, little girl expression annoys/befuddles/amuses him. He merely roles his eyes at me, before handing me something he had in his hands. Something I hadn't noticed before.

_The New York Post_, folded open to Page Six. A colour photo of a petite young woman, maybe in her late-twenties or early thirties. Her full lips are slightly parted as if she's gossiping to the breathtakingly gorgeous blonde Amazon beside her, her wide brown eyes are stuck to the ground and her dimples are showing in the slightest attempt at a smile. Her perfectly curled dark hair is pushed back from her swan-like neck. I notice next what she's wearing: a halter top-style black dress that's anything but ordinary or little. In full pleats and ruffles, it swoops down to her knees dramatically. Expensive-looking, probably close to a thousand dollars.

1:38 AM

The moment for ogling has past. I look up.

"Who is she?"

"Quite possibly," Matt hesitates, shuffling from foot to foot, "this is your mother."

And that's how six words change my life.

12:51 PM

So many hours of passed, wasted minutes, killing time. On auto-pilot. I sat through breakfast with Mr. Elliot (Mrs. Elliot works as a nurse, so she has odd hours and slept through breakfast.), a silent Matt, sleepy roommate (who reminded me, yet again, that her name is _Sara_) and the rest of the Elliot brood: a prissy preteen named Emily, angelic nine-year-old twins Jacqueline and Jasper and The Baby, the youngest of us, and the only permanently adopted one.

Of course, The Baby is always in and out of clinics and hospitals for his various heart, liver and brain problems. I can't look at him for too long without getting teary-eyed. Babies are my sore spot.

In this time, I've read and re-read "_A Night in Society With…: Blair Waldorf_," so many times I could recite in front of ten thousand strangers and not mess up any of the words.

She's perfect. So perfect. Some would even say _too _perfect.

And she's exactly thirty years old, which means she would've been sixteen years old when I was born which is so Lorelai Gilmore of her. As if this fictional, airbrushed, superhuman, socialite Blair Waldorf would be a teen mother.

Sara is probably halfway done her piano lesson with her private tutor. He's twentysomething, bespectacled (he totally works horn-rims, though), gorgeous and a thousand dollars per lesson. Yeah, did I mention that Thomas Elliott III is old money riche and has some CEO-type job that requires long hours, a Harvard Law diploma and lots of high-grade whiskey?

1:00 PM

Wrinkled after being read time and time again, the _Post _still manages to feel stiff and elephant-heavy in my hand. Something inside of my quakes and I sneeze.

"Bless you," an kind-looking elderly woman with a cameo pin on her pink twinset says, smiling upon today's youth.

"Thank you," I mumble back. She seems appeased and returns to rifling through her tan leather purse probably to show me photos of her grandkids.

The train bumps along, we're on the top floor, seated side-by-side. I usually hate sitting next to people I don't know, and, for the matter, people I _do _know, but if I'm alone with my thoughts I'll think about how much Little Miss Perfect doesn't want me waltzing into her life with my red-tag clothes, a scruffy ponytail and eyes brimmed with impending tears.

1:13 PM

"My goodness, this is my stop. Have fun at your Auntie Blair's place, Meredith," Doris, that friendly old lady with twenty million bazillion grandchildren, cups my cheek in her hand like old people do. I almost expect her to pull a baggie of homemade oatmeal cookies, a word puzzle book and her landline phone number out of that huge bag of hers.

Instead, like all the foster parents before her, she slips away without so much as a "good-bye," or a glance in my direction. She gobbled up my faux life story though.

2:07 PM

"Wake up."

My eyes snap open, my danger meter on "High." I come face-to-face with a boy a few years older than me, sixteen, seventeen tops. His face is pockmarked with several pimples and a fading scar runs down his cheekbone.

"Last stop," he says by way of small talk. I nod furiously and shuffle off the train, with him biting at my ankles all the way. I wish I could just turn around, politely say, "Not interested," and carry on my merry way. He won't quit though.

"What's your name?" He's half-jogging to catch up with my breakneck pace. I smirk as his brand-spakin'-new Nikes squeak and thump against the paved sidewalks of New York City.

"None of your business," I snap. He doesn't turn away or curse at me or twist my wrists until my knees buckle and he can hurl me into the backseat of his windowless van. Instead, he picks up his pace and walks backwards beside me.

"Ah. A mystery woman. I like it." My eyes roll at "mystery woman."

"The same could be said for you, Scarface. Except, well, 'liking' is not in the equation."

Now it's his turn to smirk. "Oh yeah? Only time will tell…"

"Whatever." I can't help but grin. Scarface can be funny when he's not so "love at first sight" serious-y. Unless he's being serious about us having "time" together, which would be creepy to the power of ten.

"So, if you won't tell me your name, what about the name of your NY contact, huh?" He blushes, as if I'm going to tell him, and I can't help but match his scarlet face.

"Blair Waldorf," I bluntly admit and then my hand pops up to cover my mouth. O Lord. What have I done now?

"Really?" He seems surprised. "I am well acquainted with Blair."

This piques my interest. If I was drinking something, I'd spit it out on his face, movie-style.

"Seriously? How so?"

"She's my 'Big Sister.'" He makes air-quotes around the sister part.

I never pegged my mom for the philanthropic type, back in my naïve days when I had no "possible," image of her face or her name, but the newspaper article cleared that all up. As long as she's somewhere glamorous (chiefly the Hamptons and New York, but she'll venture over to London or Paris or Milan if needed), Charity is Blair Waldorf's middle name.

I'd sort of thought Scarface was one of those dime-a-dozen seedy rich guys who thinks wearing old clothes are cool and stalking girls from trains is socially acceptable. But if he's in Big Brothers and Big Sisters, maybe he's not much different than I am.

I frown. "Well then, _theoretically_, you would, um, know where she lives?"

He nods. "'_Theoretically,_' I would. But if you're visiting her, shouldn't you know where she lives?"

"If only that were the case: I'm a surprise guest. From out-of-state, she's my…pen pal," I ad-lib, hoping upon all hope that he falls for it.

While he hardly looks convinced he shrugs. "I'll show you the way, if…"

"What's the if? There's always an if, isn't there?"

"Always," he agrees, "You tell me your name."

"Meredith."

"Last name?"

Ugh. I groan and mumble, "Elliot."

His paces switches from a fast walk to a full-on skip…in the streets of New York (which all seem to have confusing numbers for street names), how movie-perfect is that?

"Come on, Meredith Elliot, we've got places to be and Blair Waldorfs to see!"

2:48 PM 

By now, I know his full name (Marlon Brando Ellison), age (15 and three months), neighbourhood (outskirts of Brooklyn), favourite hobbies (rollerblading, boating, table tennis), movies (anything with his namesake) and "real" sisters' names (Grace Kelly, Veronica Lake and Marilyn Monroe).

He's still only gotten "Meredith Ellison" out of me.

"This is it."

2:49 PM 

I'm speechless.

The place is huge, some kind of apartment building-cum-hotel thing with a uniformed bell hop ready to take our bags (not that I brought anything with me besides my baby photo album and my birthday money), a marble floor and a reception desk as wide as a spaceship.

"Hey, Marlon!" Someone, also in a crisp uniform, waves Marlon, and, by association, me over to him.

"Got yourself a girlfriend, M?" he asks, grinning widely.

"No," I say at the same time he says, "Hopefully." We both look at each other.

"To Blair's?" Marlon asks, the same hopeful tone in his voice as always. The other man, much older than the two of us (Not that there is an 'us') nods and shows us to the elevator, pressing the button for us and going along for the ride.

"Jake," he introduces.

"Meredith."

2:53 PM

"And this is my cue to leave," Marlon says dramatically as the elevator doors open and he points out her apartment door. "Nice knowing you," he adds, without a hint of sarcasm.

I hesitate. "Nice is not _quite _how I put it, but you're not half bad."

His signature toothy grin spreads across his face — and soon to mine — like wildfire. Waving, he walks backwards, back to the elevator. _Never to be seen again, like so many before him. And_, adds That Inner Voice, _so very many to come. _

3:03 PM

I feel like I've been staring down room number 1415 for hours now, maybe even days. I could stare at it forever and a day. It's a door of possibilities — good ones and bad. My head, always organized like an SAT practice question, goes into multiple choice mode:

A) Turn around, go down the elevator and get back to the Elliots' before anyone notices I'm gone.

B) Run out of this building and chase down that Marlon Brando character.

C) Get the hell out and become a street person.

D) Knock, announce myself, and get shooed out of the apartment like a crazy bag woman.

E) Be accepted by Blair Waldorf as her child.

F) None of the above. Just knock, dammit.

I choose the last one.

3:04 PM

"Yes?" Even her voice seems beautiful; perfect and calculated. I'm going to choke.

Before I can answer, I take everything in. How her dark brown curls fall casually, and yet so formally, around her frail shoulders, masking the ruby ring she wears on a silver chain around her neck. In person, her eyes seem wider, more alert, and yet somehow less aware. She's wearing a little black, gold-embroidered slip dress that could be lingerie, loungewear or some sort of slutty party dress and shows much more inner thigh than I should see. Paired with bare feet, stark white against the marble tiling, diamond studs, a lacy cover-up and a headband made of something suspiciously silk-like, she looks like an angelic whore. Not that I think my "possible mother" is a whore. Not. At. All.

"Do you have the right apartment number? Are you lost?" She eyes my strangely, but her expression is still clueless and sympathetic.

"No, no." I shake my head, sending my hair flying. I smooth the flyaways down with a hand. "I mean, you're Blair Waldorf, right?"

Now her smile is supernova bright and whiter than I've ever seen. "Correct. The one and only."

"So, I have something to say to you and I'm just gonna go out and say it, 'kay?" I don't mean to add okay on the end, I don't care right now. I need to tell her the "possible" truth.

"Um, sure. Fire away."

"I'm your daughter."

Blair laughs; a tinkling, musical laugh. "I'm sorry, but you _must _be mistaken." She stills wears the smile of compassion, but I know part of her is worried.

"Actually, I don't think I am."

"How old are you?" she quizzes me, running her manicured hands down her arms for warmth.

"Fourteen."

"Birthday?" She's frowning now; things are adding up.

"November seventeenth."

"Holy —" She stops herself. "Come in." In a hissed whisper, she adds, "_Now._"

I oblige.

3:12 PM 

"This is quite possibly the most awkward moment I've ever had," Blair sighed, fixing her headband into its rightful place.

"Tell me about it," I sigh back to her, shifting from foot to foot as she leads me into her fabulously-decorated den. Each piece of furniture is dust-free and expensive-looking. When she gestures for me to sit, I wince and take a seat on a La-Z-Boy recliner, almost identical to Mr. Elliot's.

"So." She regards me cooly and then returns her attention to her nails, eyeing them intently and pulling a nail file seemingly out of nowhere.

"Everything's changed. It seems I've cut everyone from my past out of my life. Well." Her eyes glow playfully. "Almost everyone. Everyone except Serena van der Woodsen. And now you."

Serena van der Woodsen?? Now it all makes sense! She's the drop-dead gorgeous blonde from the article photo. Everyone knows her. She's number one on IMDB's star meter. And a famous movie star, known for such cinematic gems as _Breakfast At Fred's, Confidential Information _and _Thorns On Roses. _Just last year she got an Oscar nod for her role as a tragically beautiful hooker alongside Brad, George and Jennifer Garner.

"Wh-What?" I manage to sputter, but she simply ignores me, continuing on.

"I'm married, you see. To a great man, Mark. He's perfect; I'm perfect. So we're perfect together. I —" Her train of thought is interrupted by the sound of a thousand feet coming down the winding staircase. A brood of J.Crew child models hop, skip and jump down the stairs. The oldest is maybe six, fair-haired and freckled. A boy. He's pulling on the hand of an auburn-haired girl, the most elegant and beautiful kid I've ever seen. A maid, dressed in a simple black-and-white uniform comes down next, looking frazzled, a newborn baby with thick dark hair growing like weeds, in her arms.

I want to pout and say "Sorry I ruined your 'perfect' life," and stomp out, but I truly am sorry.

"I'm sorry. I'll...just go."

Blair's face softens. "No. Wait. You know, we can keep in touch. You can send me your school photos and report cards. I could get you into the best private school in the city."

"It's fine. Forget I ever came."

3:41 PM 

I haven't even spent an hour with her and already part of me hates her. I left her apartment in a hussle, with her calling after me. I'm going back to the Elliots' now. Hopefully I have enough for the train fare.

And there he is.

Marlon. Waiting for me. I guess he knew she's not the right person for me, too.

I glance down at the names on the paper in front of me. Very old-fashioned-sounding. Archibald. Charles. I smile at them. They sound like bachelor's names. Maybe they'll take me and foster care will be a thing of the past.

"Hey! Scarface!"


End file.
